In my dream there is one sentence in the dark: “We are a typical two-inch davenport:everyone dislikes us.”

In my dream my bottom teeth are unaligned and small groups of rats are debating whether or not to eat humans.

In my dream he hands me a folded bunch of new yellow bills. At least a third of them feel fake.

In my dream the play week is wrapping up and I feel replete. As I swim up to the surface of the pool I see one of our alligators hit the other one over the head with a bucket.

In my dream I hold a risograph book of sketches in olive and black. I scan the essay in the back, trying to determine whether or not the artist is queer, knowing I’ll be disappointed if they aren’t.

In my dream there is barely anything there in the darkness. A choice flashes.

In my dream I am walking with a blue card.

In my dream we are performing a play where a National Park tour becomes an ICE raid. We scramble for our belongings as everything becomes increasingly militarized.

In my dream it’s quiet, and not competitive, but irritating.

In my dream I fill in the legs, gently. A lacework of veins stands out against the darkness.